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INSTEAD OF SCARFING DOWN HER DOUBLE-DIPPER BURGER, RORY FILLS HER UNEASY STOMACH WITH HER FAVORITE CHERRY VANILLA FLOAT.

A low rumble of air conditioning blasts a chilly mist over the bustling teenagers that seek refuge from the scorching summer sun. Boisterous laughter in every corner of the shop; the dinging of the doorbell and the sudden shush of the curious, cleaved crowd. Social and greaser boys, bookworm and cheerleader girls, the occasional old couple trying to savor the youth of today, and, rarely, a middle-class family with young children.

Everyone in the heart of the city, high on sugar, blood pumping, and eyes glaring— the ring of the bell on the counter, signaling that a customer's food is ready, stills as a red flag; enticing the sworn enemies to attack like bulls in a china shop. But, surprisingly, no one has fought inside the Big Dipper as of late; no one wants to be the reason that the police are called and they shut down the only safe haven in a violent-soaked city.

Sitting on the window sill, like a raven in a cage, Rory longed to be anywhere but the Big Dipper; the popular malt shop that every teenager like herself sought to have a cool cone to combat the Tulsa heat.

Her brain threatens to freeze on the memory of Dallas' emotional fluctuation as she continues to sips down the tasty beverage, trying to drown the butterflies in her stomach in the sticky, sweet pink drink.

For a second, his eyes are soft and sweet like chocolate pudding, his voice smooth and caring as he held out his hand. He didn't try anything with her, no inappropriate comment was made— like the gossip, she's heard throughout the dingy halls of Will Rogers High. She braced herself for a rebuttal, prepared for the sexual harassment jokes that most teenage boys would say.

Then again, he's not like any of the boys their age.

Speaking of teenage boys, which Rory also defines as noises with dirt on them, her older brother, Randy, started to have a contest with his best friend, Bob, on who could burp the loudest.

Soft disgusted shrieks and awkward giggles can be heard an earshot away as the boys' girlfriends —who also happened to be best friends— started to cringe and grow embarrassed at their partner's actions.

The curly-headed boy tilts his head back as he cackles; his arms wrapped around the girl as she blushingly laughs into the comfort of his chest. Randy Anderson and Marcia Stewart, mister popular and miss quiet.

           Rory really adores their relationship, even if it's hanging on by a thread. Randy's a senior, Marcia has a year to go. He's always loved her, drunkenly confessed to his sister that he wants to marry her. Marcia Stewart is perfect for him because she's everything Randy Anderson is not. She's kind, fun-loving, and easy-going, the perfect gal to lighten up anyone's mood.

"Marcy, stop laughing along! It's not funny!" An angered voice calls out, trying to diffuse the loud belching sound echoing around the restaurant. Her cheeks flush as onlookers throw laser beams towards the table's direction.

Sherri Valance, or Cherry as others say because of her fiery nature and, of course, her signature ginger locks. She's a little more pretentious than others in their social class, purely out of habit and upbringing.

          Rory knows she means well and actually admires her attitude. The only possible downside to Cherry's character is that she's dating a person like Bob Sheldon, knowing what he is and what he does.

"Oh, come on, Sherri, have some fun, huh?" Marcia shakes her head, pulling it off Randy's chest, and looks over to her childhood friend. The move brings Randy's attention to the issue, which then pauses the competition and Bob now waits for the final say.

The redhead pushes some hair past her cardigan-covered shoulder, connecting her emerald eyes with her best friend for a brief moment. As if to challenge but she soon drops it, knowing that Marcia is equally stubborn as her. A smirk finally appears on her pink lips, a chuckle slipping from the cracks.

"There's my girl!" Bob shouts in rejoice, smiling ear-to-ear as he kisses her cheek.

Meanwhile, Rory wants to vomit. The scene is practically too sweet to be true. It's always the same cycle: be as sweet as you can be in the day, then fight and tear your vocal cords in half as they yell at each other at night.

Cherry told her once, during a sleepover held at Marcy's, that for as deeply-flawed Bob Sheldon is, she'll never leave his side because it's the same everywhere else; because that's the life she thinks she deserves.

           Rory has tried to convince the girl that there's more to life than a boyfriend, but it soon ceased because the youngest Anderson knew that Cherry is the type of person who would stay with someone just for their class, their stability since money can buy anyone happiness.

Settling down her glass on a nearby coaster, she would hate to see moisture rings singed into her favorite wooden window sill, she excuses herself from the group. "I'm gonna get some air," she announces, earning a dead nod from Randy, knowing that none of them were ever going to pay attention to her.

Her scraped-up knees buckle in pain as she walks outside, her skin bumpy, red, and irritated beyond belief. She hasn't had any time to go home and disinfect the cuts— it's not like she could blow off her brother's invite and risk the possibility of him driving mad-drunk, or worse taking out his anger on another poor kid.

Though he didn't seem to mind that she was a little late, considering she lost track of time at the train tracks near the edge of town. It was the only place where she broke off society's puppet strings and enjoyed a cigarette with the vast landscape of the countryside.

She couldn't smoke in the comfort and safety of her home. She learned that the hard way: her mother's harsh backhand to the face without any remorse, the wedding ring slicing right above her left cheekbone. Sometimes the scar still stings, just like her knees will if she doesn't heal them soon.

Squinting from the suddenly bright sky, she raises her hand to shield her caramel irises. Whistles and hollers flood her eardrums just as the howling wind picks up, toying with the hem of her dress. Older hoods, those without a care in the world and more than enough arrests on their record to prove it, start to cat-call.

Mumbling a curse under her breath, she contemplates retreating back inside— especially when she recognizes a certain tall boy striding towards the malt shop, along with two other, much shorter, greasers like him.

BLAMING THE BUTTERFLIES, HER FEET FLEW TOWARDS THE TRIO. LIKE A MOTH TOWARDS THE LIGHT, TOWARDS DESTINY.

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fez speaking!!

i love rory so much.

i hope you enjoy this chapter as much as i do!
it gives a different insight on some of the socials,
which i think is important because they haven't
been explored at all. and they deserve to, even bob.

pls remember to vote and comment,
i love you all so much <333